Billy's Risk of Rain
by trotts
Summary: Billy has trouble with his father.


Billy sat alone in his room, staring out the window at the desolate landscape that was his backyard. The window glass was nearly opaque, the ghostly white residue of a thousand rainfalls only slightly obscured his view of the unkempt lawn and empty bird feeders. In his hands he clutched tightly to a bronzed picture frame housing the only known photograph of his mother, or as he knew her, the town tramp. He closed his eyes and sighed lightly when he heard the loud "clamp" of his father's footsteps as they trudged up the wooden stairs, the thunderous approach of a man laden with mild schizophrenia. Still, Billy knew that a scatter-brained father was worth more than another lost parent, at least this year.

"Where the fuck is the peanut butter?" asked Hank as he burst into Billy's room. "How many god damn times do I have to tell you, don't touch my peanut butter."

Billy jumped to his feet and slyly kicked a jar of peanut butter underneath this bed. "I d-don't know what you're talking about, dad."

"Fuck! Now, how am I going to get the neighbor's dog to lick my balls? Huh?" asked Hank as he pinned his hands to his hips and pecked his head like a strutting cock. "I'd really like to know. He doesn't just come up and lick them on his own, you know."

"I'm sorry, dad," said Billy as his eyes fell towards the floor, not out of shame, but out of embarrassment. "I can go to the store, if you want."

Realizing that his son was distressed, Hank reached out and gently patted Billy's shoulder. "There, there, boy. I'm sure Nutella will work just as well."

"It's not that, Dad," said Billy as he grasped tighter to the bronzed picture frame. "It's just that . . . well, some of the boys at school have been making fun of me. They say that you're an insane dog-porker and that you killed mom."

Hank sighed and sat down next to Billy. "You know that's not true."

"I know," said Billy.

"You know that your mother stabbed herself 56 times in the chest," said Hank as he grabbed the picture frame from Billy. He set it face down on Billy's dresser. "And you know that she put herself in that garbage bag and then hid in the trunk of my car."

Billy's eyes could not find his father's. "I know."

"She did it to protect you. She didn't want you to find her like that. Now, you tell me who's been making fun of you and I'll go out and teach them a thing or two about bullying."

"No," shouted Billy, now alert and focused. "I don't want to hurt them. I just want them to stop."

Hank gave a half-smile, as if he were disappointed. "Okay, okay. Well, here's what you do then: first, you get a piece of paper and a pen. At the top you write, 'Kill List', because every time one of these boys makes fun of you you're going to look at this piece of paper and it will instantly kill all the bad feelings inside of you. Then, under that you write all the names of boys who make fun of you. Then, you hang that list inside your locker at school, and anytime anyone makes fun of you, you say, 'hey there, big meanie, if you don't stop making fun of me I'm going to put you on my kill list'."

"But, dad, that sounds like a . . ."

"And then, at least twice a day, you open your locker at stare at the list for a good five minutes, or so. Make sure a lot of people see you doing it," continued Hank as he wrapped his arm around Billy and pulled him close. "The more people see you the more they'll respect you. You just stare at that 'Kill List' until all those negative feelings are flushed right out of you. Maybe you can even write the names of a few teachers on there, or even the principal, because then you can look at the list and think about all your role models, and how one day you'll be successful like them, and how all those bullies will be hooked on drugs, or fucking dogs, or something."

Billy was speechless. Out of futility, he stared down at his own lap, desperately hoping that the folds in his pants would envelope him. ". . . umm, but what if that doesn't work?"

"Oh son," sighed Hank. "Let me tell you a little story about when I was your age and some of the boys in my neighborhood bullied me. You see, back then I wasn't the handsome man I am today. No, I was a pock-marked little hellion that wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, even from a German Sheppard. It all started one sunny summer day as I rode my bike around the old neighborhood.

You see, back then we had to ride bicycles because we didn't have these fancy video games. All we had were PC games, like "Risk of Rain", which I used to play all day and night, trying my hardest to unlock all the available characters. You see, I only made to the "Acrid" character, who was this real mean looking alien creature that spit out acid trails and wore chains like a badge of honor. He didn't take no shit from nobody, just like me. In fact, I played so much "Risk of Rain" that my parents thought I had become possessed. They claimed video games were the work of the devil . . . but I'll save that story for when you're a little older.

So there I was, just a young, fat, nerdy kid who played way too much "Risk of Rain". Did I mention that "Risk of Rain" was a rogue-like? You know what a 'rogue-like' is, right? It's a kind of game where you only get one life. Anyway, I was real nerdy back then. I would talk for hours about dungeons and dragons, and RAM versus ROM, and how to properly format a floppy disk, and how to make it to the final level in "Risk of Rain" without dying. You see, every ten minutes the game's difficultly would increase, until the monsters were so tough you'd have to be like Rambo to take them down. But the powerups would really help you out. There were so many different types of powerups, like increased damage, regenerating health, spontaneous missile attacks, elemental damage, and more. And they even stacked, meaning you could get multiple same powerups and their power would increase. Some runs would be really easy if you'd get the good powerups.

Right, where was I? . . . Oh, right. So I was, just riding my bike and minding my own business, when I ran into these neighborhood kids that used to always tease me because they all thought that I let a cat lick my balls once. I mean, it was true and all, but they had no real way of knowing. Anyway, this one kid—who was built like a real brick shit house—and who also really liked "Risk of Rain", mainly because you could play cooperatively over the Internet, making it a bit easier, came up to me and pushed me off my bike. I fell into a pile of dog shit, which really reminded me of this one time I was playing "Risk of Rain" and I fell into a lava pit and died. I was so upset because I had such a good run going with the Acrid guy. I had like three or four turrets following me, and at least one health drone, which was healing the shit out of me whenever I took damage. The powerups and turrets all cost money, which you could gain from killing monsters or opening chests that were randomly placed throughout the levels. Speaking of levels, there were like five or six different terrain types, including the final stage, which was a really cool base-like mega complex filled with all sorts of awesome powerups.

Oh man, I played so much "Risk of Rain" that my friends at school started calling me a "fat slob". Whatever that means. And you know what: I really like the way "Risk of Rain" looked, even though it had that "old school" look that so many indie games went for. It was a 2d platformer, and it didn't need fancy graphics to impress me. I was just happy that the game was so fun and addicting.

And that's what it's really all about, son. It wasn't just about looks, it was about the content," finished Hank. He stared at Billy with proud eyes.

Billy hesitated, but eventually blurted out, ". . . but, dad, 'Risk of Rain' came out, like, 4 months ago on Steam. I don't even think they had computers when you were a kid."

The illustrious glint in Hank's eyes quickly converted to rage, "the fuck did you just say to me? "

Billy slowly pulled away from his father. "I didn't mean anything by it, dad. I was just thinking that. . ."

"This is the exact reason your mother stabbed herself to death," said Hank as he stood to his feet and clenched his fists. "That chatty cunt had it coming, but I never thought my own son would betray me."

Billy quickly scanned his room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. "Dad, please, I wasn't trying to upset you."

"So what if 'Risk of Rain' didn't exist when I was a kid?" said Hank as his elephantine frame eclipsed his son's fragile, pubescent body. "And so what if I just made that whole story up because the shadows in my mind would have burned my brain if I didn't talk about Steam games? And so what if I was the real bully when I was younger, and that I used to pour gasoline on neighborhood kids and then make them suck each other's dicks? Huh? So the fuck what?"

A thought occurred to Billy. He jumped to his feet and shouted, "Wait! I think I see a jar of peanut butter under my bed!"

Hank stopped dead in his tracks. The look of madness receded. "Oh . . . really?"

"Yeah," coaxed Billy. "You can have the whole jar if you want."

Hank looked around the room, confused. "Okay. I guess that . . . well, now I can get the neighbor's dog to lick my balls."

"That's right. It's all going to be okay."

Hank bent down and fished the jar of peanut butter from underneath Billy's bed. It was still sealed. He smiled wide and said, "Chesters really loves Jif."

"I know, dad. I know."


End file.
